


Something Like Beginning

by unintentionalgenius



Series: Astridverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, just read it, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionalgenius/pseuds/unintentionalgenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots. Take them as something like deleted scenes from "A Great Man".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm So Disappointed

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I don't own any of the characters but Astrid.   
> This particular scene happens shortly after Astrid moves in, a week or three at most.

"We need to talk." Astrid's voice was deadly serious.

"'m busy," Sherlock muttered into the microscope, not even bothering to look at her.  
"Yeah, well, this is more important." A pause. No effect. "I found your stash."

Suddenly the room is deadly quiet. It seems like a movie that has been muted-even the sounds of London have hushed to watch this conversation, hear every breath drawn and every word uttered.

Sherlock looks at her darkly, as though trying to puzzle something out, something confusing. "Oh?" he tries to keep his voice even, but she can hear the slight change in inflection.

"You forgot to child-proof your house," she comments. "but that's understandable. I've noticed children aren't really your forte."

She waits. She desperately wants him to say something, wants him to be her  _father, damnit, and fucking parent for two bloody minutes_  but all she gets is more silence.

_Fine, I'll settle for a little contrition, an apology, a promise to throw it all out_. Still no results. Clearly Sherlock Holmes is not the mind reader some people think he is.

"You're my father."

"Stunning observation."

"I wasn't finished. You're my father, but I accept that you probably don't want me, most likely don't even like me, and would rather I had never needed to know of your existence. All of that is singularly understandable, because I am human, and thus I am selfish, so I can understand selfishly guarding a way of life and a person you see as just yours."  _John._

"But please understand that he is not just yours. He is mine too. He was mine from the moment he silently convinced you to adopt me. He became even more strongly mine when he was realistic enough to know that you had never dealt with a teenage girl before, when he wouldn't let me ask you how I looked because he knew that you'd give an honest answer, no matter what I needed to hear. He's mine because he taught me to cook risotto, and he can miraculously braid hair better than almost anyone, which means nothing to you. So please, know this: he is not just yours. And I don't know everything about your life. God knows, I know almost nothing. But I do know that if you ever used again, it would kill him. Inside. Where the doctors can't fix and stitches can't hold together. He'd break. And I  _need_  him. Like air. Like gravity. Like just a few minutes of sunshine after a week of gray drizzle, I need John. Not like you need him, because that would be weird. But like a ship needs a port in a storm. I need him. Because I sure as hell don't have you." She waited, desperate for some response. She would give him a long time, because she doubted he had noticed her observing him. He probably didn't know she had seen the tiny tell-tale scars. She herself hadn't believed until this morning, when she wandered into the bathroom, because surely  _somewhere_  in this house there were bandages, and her hand brushed something on the very top shelf that might have been a bandage box but wasn't, it was so much worse, it hurt instead of healing, destroyed instead of protecting, and she was sure that he had told everyone that life was far behind him but here he was with a stash in the bathroom he and his beloved shared. She didn't fool herself it was the only one.

"I…when I…" Sherlock tried to speak. For some reason, words just wouldn't come. He felt…betrayed. By himself. Of course the girl, shorter than him but still tall, would be able to reach the higher places he had taken to hiding things from John. Why hadn't he thought about that?

"Don't. Just…don't." she stopped him. She didn't have the patience for the excuses she knew were coming, she couldn't tolerate hearing him try to make his actions seem acceptable. "All I want you to know is that if you hurt him, you'll answer to me."

Sherlock nodded, his mouth dry. No one-with the possible exception of Mycroft- spoke to him like that. As Astrid left the room, she prayed the pale, brooding man couldn't see her hold her breath, didn't notice the sob that escaped as she vainly tried to escape to her room before breaking down.


	2. Your Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens somewhere around a month in, maybe.

She heard the steps on the stairs. They didn't even bother avoiding the spots that creaked; why should they? She was trapped. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and they'd be here in seconds. Astrid couldn't help it; she just froze.

That was when Sherlock walked in, striding into the kitchen and stopping suddenly at the sight that greeted him.

"John," he said, interrupting the other man, "Your daughter cooked. By the quantity of food prepared and the shocked look at our arrival, it is safe to assume she cooked for us."

"Oh, she's my daughter when she cooks?" asks John, mock offended. He doesn't add the all-to-ready, all-to-serious  _she's my daughter nearly all the time anyway, with you ignoring her like you do_. Now isn't the time or place for this discussion.

"Really John, you've seen me cook. Clearly this is something she has learned from you." Sherlock wasn't a bad cook, but he rather lacked the patience for it. Even John's experiment analogies and the clear chemistry involved didn't help. Sherlock was simply not meant to cook- and everyone in the room knew it.

"I withhold the acceptance of that fact until I've tasted the food." John, on the other hand, had a natural aptitude for cooking, and knew it. He wasn't cocky, but it was one of the few things he was better at than Sherlock, and small victories, right?

Astrid commented, "Lestrade was under strict orders to require your services for at least an hour and a half." She sounded put out. Petulant, even. "It was a surprise."

"Well, we're quite surprised," said John, and with that, the sun seemed to come out in the flat as Astrid beamed.

 _John always knows what to say_  will cross Sherlock's mind later, when he is thinking about that night's meal. For now, he flops down into a kitchen chair, and John walks over to the stove to further investigate. He dips a spoon into a saucepan, takes a small taste of the contents, licks his lips while nodding. Offers some to Astrid, who accepts. She nods as he makes some quiet commentary, and Sherlock is reminded again that he loves this man, with a love so deep and powerful and bottomless and just a little bit lustful. His eyes wander to the smaller frame, just beside John, and a flicker of a similar emotion catches him off guard. He pushes it down, drowns it in observations ( _shirt hasn't been washed since last time she wore it, must be a favorite, she was listening to music when the cab pulled up and didn't hear us until we were on the stairs…)_ , but later that night it will make it to the surface of his thoughts, and cause more than one confused wrinkle in his brow as he ponders it.

But for now, Sherlock watches his daughter finish making dinner, watches her set the table and bring out the wine that had been chilling ("Lestrade got it for me!"), watches as she serves them their food and sits down with them, a glass of water in her hand. He listens to John tell anecdotes about the surgery, hears the hearty yet feminine laugh that issues forth from his daughter at a particularly stubborn patient's comment. He watches them both, and John has to remind him to eat. He does, and it's delicious, and Sherlock thinks that maybe this is what people mean when they say  _home_.


	3. That Time of the Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to a prompt from a reviewer who wanted Sherlock and John dealing with teenage girly things like…well, I bet you'll figure it out. Un-beta'ed and un-Britpicked. Review please?

"I'm  _dying._ "

"Do you think you could manage to do it a little less loudly?"

"Are you honestly asking me to die quieter, Sherlock Holmes?"

"At least until you reach your final breaths, yes. If you could be quiet then, too, I'd be much obliged. I'm in the middle of something."

Astrid was sprawled out over the entire couch with a pained look on her face, stomach down. John wandered in with a cup of tea and the morning paper and commented, "You've finally got someone of your maturity level in the flat, Sherlock. I'd've thought you'd be thrilled."

Sherlock shot him a glare that would've been murderous if you didn't know the two men.

"Astrid, you want a cuppa?"

"No, I  _want_  to die and end my mortal suffering!"

"Well, barring that, would a cuppa be any good?"

"Can you surgically remove my uterus?"

"Not ethically…"

"Yes please, a cuppa would be great. Thanks."


	4. Getting to Know You

You don't realize how much you know about your parents from growing up with them. That is, until you get new parents and you have to learn the facts about them that everyone else seems to come pre-programmed with, and they, in return, have to learn you. It's silly, really.

"Favorite color?"

"Green. 'S peaceful." Camped out at the kitchen table, John and Astrid were playing twenty questions.

"Mine's blue. It always has been, even when I was little. Used to get made fun of because I was a girl who liked blue. How do you feel about chocolate cake?"

"Can't stand it."

"Vanilla?"

"Slightly better."

"Favorite doctor?"

"Seven."

"What? Christopher Eccleston is the best doctor, ever."

"Well that's only your opinion because you're a baby, isn't it?" He joked.

"A baby?" She was mock-insulted.

"You weren't even alive when seven was on!"

"Hmph."

"Sherlock, who's your favorite doctor?"  
"You." He clearly hadn't been listening to the conversation.

"I'm touched, but we're discussing Doctor Who."

"What do you mean?"

"The television show. With the time traveling alien known as The Doctor?" Astrid supplied.

Sherlock paused. "The first Doctor." Of course.

"How about your favorite color?" Astrid probed.

"Purple."

"Somehow, I expected that," she replied. Wanting to take advantage of his good mood, she continued her line of questioning. "Favorite…language."

That was one John was pretty sure had never been asked in all of the 'getting to know you' games he'd ever played. But he was playing with Holmeses now, so he should've expected it.

"French."

"I like Farsi."

John looked at her in surprise. "You speak Farsi?"

"Um…not so much. A few phrases, really basic. I just love the way it sounds."

"I learned a lot of it in Afghanistan. I could teach you what I know, if you like?"

Astrid smiled, the same smile that John loved to see on Sherlock, a genuine, happy smile. It was much less rare on Astrid than on her father. On both of them, it could light up a room. "I'd like that."

Sherlock, competitive man that he was, interrupted with, "Do you speak any languages, other than English?"

"Spanish. Though I've always wanted to learn French. And just about any other language I can get someone to teach me," she continued with a chuckle.

"I could help you learn French," he mumbled.

Astrid pretended not to hear. "Beg pardon?"

"I. Could. Teach. You," Sherlock gritted his teeth as though every word was physically painful.

"That sounds positively lovely," Astrid replied, getting up to clear off her dishes. "I'd really enjoy that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that it is more likely John would have learned an Afghan dialect, but I feel like he also learned Farsi, just because it is a commonly spoken language in a lot of areas. So I'm sure he knows some Pashto and God only knows whatever else, but he also speaks Farsi. :P


	5. The Naming of Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place a ways into their relationship. Put it wherever you please. :)

For once, it was late evening and John was out. That almost never happened. Further to the surprise of everyone involved, Astrid or Sherlock ( no one would ever be able to remember who) had insinuated themselves with the other on the sofa, sprawled out together in a way that only a father and his child can seem to configure themselves. They were, even more surprisingly, watching telly. Granted, it was a documentary on historical murders (they both loved that sort of thing), but it was telly. As the show rolled to commercial, a thought occurred to Astrid.

Actually, that's not quite true. The thought in and of itself had occurred many times; however, this was the first time it had occurred to ask.

"Daddy?"

"Mm?"

"If…if you and Mum had…had been together, if you had known…about me, whatwouldyouhavenamedme?" In her nervousness, the last part of her question sort of all ran together.

It bears some explaining, this question. Astrid had always felt names were very important. She was of the opinion that your name influences your development from the time it's given. After all, it's almost instinctive that we answer to our names, isn't it? It's too deep-seated an urge to be trained, in her opinion. So when she had been old enough to realize that her father had never had a say in naming her, her curiosity was piqued. If he had been there, if her mother had even told him she existed, what would have been his contribution to her naming? Would Sherlock be the same crazy, insanely intelligent, extremely individual man she knew if his name were something mild-mannered and thoroughly boring like William or Peter? And certainly there was something very John-like in the personality of the man known as John Watson, strong and solid but deep. Interestingly, the man she was sharing the couch with felt much the same way about naming.

Of course, even with her words all run together like too-diluted watercolor paints, Sherlock still heard every syllable. He was unprepared for it. This played in Astrid's favor- she was more likely to get an honest answer.

He shifted uncomfortably, though not as though he was trying to extricate himself. Just that he wanted to move and dispel the emotions clouding his thoughts.

"Your mother and I were never what most people would call lovers. She was a very good friend to me, as close to a friend as I've really ever had. Aside from John." This conversation was not easy for him; it involved emotions, and feeling things, and all sorts of frankly illogical and non-empirical  _stuff_. Easier to avoid it altogether. But her face, her voice. She needed his answer, was drawing it out of him with her vulnerability. "She and I were prone to, mmm, flights of fancy. One of those consisted of describing to each other our perfect baby names, should either of us ever have children. She had a boy's name in mind, said she always had. I've deleted it, of course. I knew I'd never have children. Waste of time, full of narcissism and frankly so domestic it's boring," he spat out before he could stop himself, full of bitterness from years of having the expectations of society foisted upon him. He sighed at his own lack of self-control, and then continued: "We stayed out late that night, until the stars were filling the sky," he was waxing poetic, "trying to think of a girl's name. It felt so dreadfully important at the time. When we found it, you could just tell it was right. Looking up at the stars, there was only one name either of us could think of : Astrid."

Astrid inhaled sharply; not so much out of surprise, she had rather been expecting this outcome by the time they were midway through the story, but at the sound of it. There was an entire world of oceans between knowing something in the silence of your mind and hearing it spoken aloud.

A thought seemed to occur to Sherlock, and he nudged her. "What's your middle name?"

"Cassiopeia," she replied. He couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes, that was the middle name we chose. She was prominent that night, Cassiopeia."

The idea flitted across his mind that an entirely different Cassiopeia was becoming quite prominent in his own life, but he would think about that later. Right now, he focused on how nice, how utterly domestic yet entirely  _not_  boring it was to be entangled with his daughter on a sofa, listening to a posh British voice discuss Jack the Ripper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassiopeia is a constellation, representing a Greek queen who boasted about her unrivaled beauty and was, in punishment for defying the wishes of the gods, confined to the stars. Along with Astrid, it's a name I personally have always rather liked.


	6. Birthday Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the certificate hanging on the wall of Sherlock's bedroom in aSiB. Please review! Let me know what you think, I love feedback. Un-beta'd and un-Britpicked.

"Happy Birthday!"

"Mmghlm…"

"Astrid! Astrid you have to get up and open your presents!" Sherlock sounded suspiciously like a young child on Christmas morning.

"Go away and come back in an hour. It's five bloody AM." She didn't even bother checking the clock. She could feel how early it was.

"No, no, nonono, you have to get up!"

"Astrid, Sherlock has been absolutely  _beside himself_  about this gift for as long as my patience can tolerate. If you don't get out of bed this instant, I will pick your precious little arse up, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you into the living room." John's tone brooked no nonsense.

"Mmymddagggrru." She was face-down in her pillow.

"What was that?" John's voice was over-polite.

"I dare you."

John Watson has never turned down a dare in his life. Not when someone dared him to stick his tongue to a frozen flagpole, not when someone dared him to kiss a boy for the first time (a game of truth-or-dare in uni), not when his sister dared him to jump out of the tree and he broke his leg as a child, certainly not when he had been dared to eat a worm, and not when he had been dared to drink far more Irish car bombs than any healthy person should have. Never. So he did the only thing he could do to continue his streak: he picked Astrid up, (gently) flung her over his shoulder, carried her to the living room, and playfully threw her onto the couch.

"Ouch!" she said. Not hurt, of course, John had been too careful for that, but more in the spirit of the thing.

Sherlock had raced ahead of them and already had his package in hand. He shoved it in her lap and tried to muster a little dignity, but failed miserably. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

_If she doesn't like it, I shudder to think how terrible the next few weeks will be,_ John thought to himself.

Astrid rubbed her eyes and glared daggers (of the collapsible stage variety, no real wounds intended) at John. "I can't believe you did that!"

"I told you I would. Now open the gift before Sherlock explodes."

She tore the wrapping paper off, finding her gift in a large white box, similar to the kind clothing is often put into when giftwrapped. She pulled the box apart to discover an outfit made of what seemed to be white, canvas-like material. Confused, she pulled it out and saw that it was a pair of pants and a top made to wrap around and then be tied. Of course they were the perfect size. Slowly, a realization dawned on her: "It's a gi!"

Sherlock positively  _grinned_ , something that hadn't been seen in quite a while. "Exactly!" He was proud that his daughter somehow recognized the uniform of a martial arts student, and even more so that she called it by the correct name.

"But…for what?" she asked, forehead wrinkled quizzically.

Sherlock's smile got even broader, which just seconds ago John would've deemed impossible, especially with his combined knowledge of the human anatomy and Sherlock. "I signed you up for a judo class. Once a week."

John held his breath. So far, so good, but this was the part that had him worried: Some girls like martial arts; some prefer other pursuits. Others were perfectly neutral on the subject. Which category did Astrid fall into?

He needn't have worried; Astrid nearly fell over the table in her excitement to hug Sherlock. "Thank you thank you thank you!" she squealed.

"Well, that answers that question," John remarked to no one in particular.

Sherlock looked a little confused as to what to do with the teenage girl wrapped around him, so he gingerly placed his arms around her and patted her on the back. John nodded encouragingly. "Shall I get my present, then?" he asked his still nonexistent conversational partner, picking up a smaller box.

Astrid disengaged herself from Sherlock's hug and picked up this gift. She opened it to find a box from Amazon; it was a Kindle.

"I figured, with the fact that the flat is crowded enough as it is, and you being the avid reader that you are, it was the best idea." Astrid smiled in response.

"It's perfect. Thank you." The unspoken exchange:  _I love it. I love you. I don't need to attack you with a hug to prove it._

_I know. And I'm glad, I dunno if the table can withstand another assault._

"Glad you like it. Tea?" he asked both Sherlock and Astrid.

"Yes."

"Yes please."

"I'll just be a moment."

As John left the living room to grab the mugs he had set out and fill them with tea, Sherlock and Astrid looked at each other.

"I'm glad you liked it," he said, a little awkwardly.

"I love it! All of it," she replied emphatically. "How did you know I wanted to take judo?"

"I didn't, per se-"

"And that's the one and only time you'll probably ever hear him admit he didn't know something for certain," John interrupted, back with the tea.

Sherlock continued, a little peevishly, but taking the ribbing good-naturedly. "I just sort of hoped you'd enjoy learning it. It has certainly benefitted me, though one imagines that you would be taking a different career path."  _I certainly wouldn't want you in so much danger all the time. You're capable of so very many things. I'm sure you already have plans for the future that I'm not a bit involved in._

It was the first time Sherlock had spoken about a future with Astrid, aside from an immediate one. A slightly stunned silence fell as everyone (Sherlock included) realized this.

"Not that you lack the ability," Sherlock continued, realizing that his last comment might have caused offense.  _You'll be great at anything. It's possible you hate my job. I doubt you derive any pride in me from it. I certainly wouldn't want to force it on you, for you to feel like you have to carry on when I retire._ _ **If**_ _I live that long._

"Nonsense. Your job is very unique. I certainly wouldn't expect you to think I had any plans for following in your footsteps."  _At least not quite so soon. Give me time. I might fall in love with it. Unless you don't want me to? Are you trying to push me away? I've never expressed an inordinate amount of interest in it before. Does that hurt your feelings?_

John pursed his lips.  _Well, this is nice and awkward_ , he thought.  _Everyone's trying so bloody hard not to offend anyone else._   _Silly, really._   _Just talk like regular people. Say what you mean to say. Words aren't that hard._ A second part of him answered,  _Says the man unwilling to say all this out loud._

Because truly, if regular people who talk to each other and express their feelings normally do exist, they certainly do not maintain a residence at 221B Baker Street.


	7. Migraines

John walked into their flat, followed by Sherlock. He shut the door behind them rather loudly. They had just gotten back from a painfully simple case; it had only taken a half hour, and most of that was in taxis on the way there and back.

"My head  _fucking hurts._ "

"People generally don't appreciate when young ladies use such vulgar language."

"I have a  _fucking_ migraine, I don't care about  _fucking societal norms._ "

This pulled Sherlock's attention from the mess of beakers and bottles that had been left abandoned in their rush to the crime scene. "Hmmm."

Answering his unspoken thought, John said, "Yes Sherlock, she does sound a bit like you in one of your more petulant moods."

"I don't get  _petulant_ ," Sherlock responded, his tone dangerously close to said territory.

"Can you just  _shoot_  me and put me out of my misery?" If Astrid's head hadn't felt like it was imploding, she might have noticed that this cavalier attitude towards his shooting anyone made John very uncomfortable.

She was, in a way very reminiscent of her biological parent, sprawled across the couch with her elbow crooked over her eyes, blocking out the sunlight. She had stolen ("procured") Sherlock's dressing gown, which he had allowed because she wasn't feeling well (or so he told himself-there was no way it was because he enjoyed the thought that she was comforted by it), and was wrapped in it. No one, herself included, was quite sure if she had on anything  _underneath_ it, so that was probably also a factor in her being allowed to keep it. She flinched every time Sherlock so much as brushed two pieces of glass together, causing them to clink. The sounds of London outside were positively jarring. John's soft doctor voice was the only sound that didn't cause her to feel like knives were being driven through her brain.

"I am desperately craving chocolate, but there's no chocolate in, because there's  _never_  anything in, because I live in a flat with two people completely incompetent at anything  _resembling_  adult activities, who instead go gallivanting around London and leave me here  _alone_ , in pain." All of this was delivered in a quiet whisper, attempting to balance her need to castigate her parents with her strong desire to  _not_ worsen the pain she was experiencing.

To this, John offered his ever-present remedy for absolutely everything: "Tea?"

In response, he only got a brief glare before the elbow was over her eyes again.


	8. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a self-explanatory place on the timeline.

"What's wrong with Astrid?" Sherlock asked at breakfast that morning. "Why isn't she going to school?"

John gave him a look, almost shocked but a little too jaded for that, with just a little disappointment. "You aren't serious."

"Of course I am. Why would I ask a question if I weren't serious? She's been in good health, she hasn't got a fever, she didn't oversleep implying that her body does not need extra rest, her appetite is within the norm…Why is she not attending school today?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, it's been one month since her mother died."

Sherlock's forehead creased in thought. "But yesterday was one month minus a day, and she was behaving normally. She attended school, seemed unchanged. I know there is some sort of general custom surrounding anniversaries of things like this, but I'd hoped she'd be a bit more logical."

John sighed- this was going to be harder than he expected. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand this concept. It was illogical.

"Let me handle this one, John." At the look she received from both men, Astrid added, "Not eavesdropping, you two just talk quite loudly."

John sat back in his chair, ready to hear her explain to Sherlock exactly why humans grieved more on certain days.

"I understand that there's just no logic to it. I get that; I might even feel the same way about some things." That surprised John. Apparently Astrid was more Sherlock-like in her emotions than he had expected. "But here's the thing: it's harder today because humans measure their lives in intervals. Months, years, decades. We celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, all of that on certain days. Those days, they're special to us. Today it's one month since my mum died- an arbitrary measurement. Thirty days. Said like that, today should just be another day. But it's a month, and said like that, it's a reminder of all the months she'll miss. She'll never see me turn 18; I won't have her to ask for advice about boys. She won't be at my wedding, won't help me choose my dress. She'll never see me graduate from uni. There's a million things I'll never know because I never asked, and now I don't have the chance. I'll never be able to ask her what I was like as a child; she won't be there to call if my baby is acting weird and I need to know whether it's normal or not. A month out from the crash is just another reminder of all the time I'll never have with her and all the memories we'll never make, all the plans we had that we'll never fulfill. Thirty days might just be, for you, thirty days since a woman you'd not seen since university died. Just like any other person that died thirty days ago. It doesn't matter to you. But my whole world changed that day, and a month is rather a long time when you've lost every second of it that could have been spent with the person you love." With that, Astrid fell silent, seeming emotionally drained from the effort of explaining her inner turmoil to a self-confessed sociopath.

The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity; for hours, even. If anyone had looked at a clock, they'd have known it lasted three minutes and 42 seconds. Then, slowly, Sherlock stretched out a hand a placed it over Astrid's, which had been resting on the table. John started to smile. Maybe Sherlock understood more than he let on.


	9. Europe, Asia, North America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one can go wherever you want it, but for me it's shortly before the events of TGG.

A very unexpected laugh from the kitchen greeted John as he entered his flat. He wandered towards it, and as he did, he heard Astrid's voice saying something that sounded very much like but he hoped it wasn't "John 'Three Continents' Watson?"

_Shit._  was his first thought. Shortly followed by  _Who?,_ answered almost immediately by  _Harry_.

He walked into the kitchen only seconds later, greeted by the sound of Astrid's giggles and the sight of she and Harriet Watson at the for-once-not-covered-in-experiments kitchen table, Harry with one of John's beers from the fridge. "Which three continents would that be then, Dad?" Astrid teased.

John was mortified. Leave it to Harry (who he had deceived himself into thinking didn't even know about his nickname) to tell his teenage daughter about his sexual conquests.

He stood there, blinking in shock and mouth hanging slightly open, for what felt like hours but was probably only 30 seconds or so. It might have been an hour. However long it was, it was more than long enough to get Harry tickled pink.

Well, maybe the alcohol helped a little.

The look on his face only made Astrid laugh harder. She was barely breathing at this point, practically convulsing from the perceived hilarity.

"Harry. What. The. Bloody. Hell."

"Hey Johnny boy. I just came by to meet your gorgeous little girl. We've had a lovely afternoon bonding."  
"Aunt Harry took it upon herself to give me blackmail." Astrid's grin defied the laws of physics and human anatomy. "She said I might need it. So, which three continents would that be again?"


	10. It's Polite to Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a reviewer on fanfiction.net.  
> Review please!

John was always careful to knock when he needed into Astrid's room. It wouldn't do to walk in on her changing or something; she wasn't actually his child. Sherlock, however, never remembered things like that, which is why one day, he got a high-heeled shoe thrown at him.

He burst in, just as Astrid was peeling off her last layer. She shrieked and he just stood there, completely unbothered.

"Oh, come off it. One, I'm your father. Two, I'm not interested in women, especially not those in the throes of puberty. Third, I've seen more naked bodies than I care to enumerate at the moment, because I need help. Explain to me in great detail the plot of the fifth Harry Potter book. I believe I have a serial killer using it to plan his murders."

The strangely shoe-shaped bruise lingered for a little over a week.


	11. The Infamous Black Underwear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is to be read as two phone conversations, which is a bit different from my usual format, So I thought I'd give you a heads-up.

"Hullo?"

"Astrid, we need to talk."

"Yes, Lestrade?"

"May I ask why there are a pair of your underwear at my house?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, they aren't mine, and I haven't had a woman over to the flat in an embarrassingly long time, as I'm sure you can deduce. The only female to come _near_  my flat in months has been you, so they must be yours."

"Lestrade, why would I have left…"

"Astrid?"

"…Describe them."

"What?"

"Describe the newly discovered undergarments in detail."

"Um…they're black. And lacy. And they've got these sort of frilly bits on them. And a bow. And they're black."

"…Why don't you call Sherlock and have  _him_ explain how  _my underwear_  ended up at  _your flat._ "

* * *

"Yes, Lestrade."

"Um, Sherlock, I've sort of an odd question."

"I'm sure. Pray ask it."

"Did you put…Astrid's underwear in my flat?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"They were entirely inappropriate for a girl her age."

"You're kidding."

"What?"

"You didn't approve of her undergarments so you break into my house and leave them there."

"Yes. I fail to see why you're struggling with this concept."

"Because, Sherlock, it never occurred to you how it looks for me to have a teenage girl's pants in my bedroom!"

"How is that?"

"Like I'm bloody sleeping with her or something, Sherlock, good Lord!"

"Seeing as it's been quite a while since you had anyone in your bedroom besides yourself, I estimated the danger to be minimal for everyone involved."

"…Sherlock. I really,  _really_  shouldn't have to establish this, but from now on, my flat is off-limits as a place to hide things of Astrid's that you don't approve of."

"…"

"Sherlock."

"Fine."


	12. Angel of Music

Sherlock Holmes, it is well known, plays the violin.

Mycroft Holmes plays the piano.

Gregory Lestrade plays the guitar, a remnant of his punk phase.

John Watson has no discernable musical inclination whatsoever.

Astrid Holmes plays the harp.

It started in primary school: her grandmother died and left her the harp she’d always kept in her parlor but rarely touched. Arthritis, you know. Mum got her lessons, said it was good to know how to play a more obscure instrument. Less competition. “If you ever want to join a professional orchestra or something,” she would joke. “Every Tom, Dick, and Jane learns violin or clarinet or piano. Hardly any ever think of learning the harp.”

She showed an aptitude for it, played with her school orchestra after a year or two of lessons. She was better than good; she might even have been able to go to a performing arts school to focus on the harp, except for one thing: she hated to practice. It was _boring_ , and _dull_ , and any other word an 11-year-old harpist can whinge at her mum at 5 in the afternoon, on the dot, every day. Of course, if one wants to get in to a good music conservatory program, one practices. _A lot._ That was the bit Astrid could never quite get right. But then, of course, her mum died, and a lot of things changed. Now she lives with her father, and his boyfriend, and they’re happy. Her father plays violin, and his boyfriend likes to listen when it isn’t terrible. Not that he’s not good. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s brilliant, when he’s not torturing the instrument in a fit of pique. The music world has no idea what they lost when he decided not to become a violinist full-time. Astrid listens, too, and learns his style, and sometimes, when the day has been particularly emotional, or her father is playing particularly well, a violin solo will become an improvised duet, the sound of her harp dancing around the voice of the violin, enticing it, drawing out something utterly different than what it would ever produce on its own, and the music is all the more beautiful for that; on those days, John and Mrs. Hudson simply find a comfy chair and a cup of tea and settle in to listen. 


	13. There's Nothing Wrong with You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I wrote a fic about what I wish my coming-out would be like. In an ideal world, this is how my parents would take my asexuality. Including the bit with the cuppa.

“Dad?”

“Yeah love?” John’s a bit distracted, reading the morning paper.

“Would you and Daddy be too terribly upset if I never… if I never had kids?”

A moment passes in which John quite clearly realized this is an important conversation; not one of the important ones that you can pretend aren’t important, that you carry out from behind your newspaper while pretending to read it (often characterized by the reading material in question being upside down), but one of the important ones that needs to have every ounce of your attention, and know it. “I want you to be happy, and so does he. So if you’re happy without ever having children, we’d be the most thrilled parents alive.”

She blinks up at him, a little bit lost and a lot like the child she was before he met her. “Because… I don’t know, but the idea of getting married, or really even dating… I don’t want to. And I don’t much want to have…” a pause that might be awkward, but somehow it wasn’t, “sex, either.”

John maintained his expression. It didn’t even flicker. It was all fine. “If that’s what you want, then go for it. It’s not conventional, sure, but we aren’t a conventional family. So if it makes you happy and doesn’t hurt anyone else, I say why not?”

Sherlock spoke up from his corner of the room; how long had he been there? No telling, really. “I believe the terms you are looking for are aromanticism and asexuality. If you desire a label.”

She smiled, a little, the weight of the world and her parents’ disappointment gone. Or at least, dispersed enough to let her curiosity take the reins. “So, then, other people have it too?”

Sherlock spun, giving her the full force of his attention. “They are sexual and romantic orientations; some people are heterosexual and heteroromantic; they are the “norm”, but there are vast numbers of people with other sexual and romantic orientations. The ones you just described aren’t well known, which probably explains why you came in here thinking you were somehow defective and needed fixing.” He glanced at John, then continued, “I am a panromantic demisexual, and John is a biromantic bisexual. Everyone has their labels. Yours are no better or worse than anyone else’s. But they are _not_ defects.” Written on Sherlock’s face, clear as a windowpane, was the determination that his daughter would not grow up thinking she was defective, she was wrong, she was messed up, a machine without feelings. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you just don’t desire sexual or romantic relationships.”

A tear rolled down Astrid’s face as her voice cracked. “It’s just…No one else seems to feel the same way.” She reached up and wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“You’re perfectly alright, sweetheart. It’s just you’re a bit extraordinary is all. Not too everyday and commonplace. Same as everyone else in this room, so you fit right in.” John opened his arms to her and she shuffled across the floor from kitchen to sofa, curling into him. As she cried, mixed tears of relief and tension and a little happiness, she missed seeing Sherlock leave the room. She didn’t see him glide towards the kitchen or soundlessly open a cabinet. She never noticed his slight misstep as he carried the kettle to the sink to fill up, nor did she hear the cabinets open and close. What she noticed, a few minutes later, was her Daddy, holding a cup of tea made just the way she liked it, standing just in front of her.

“Tea?”

As she drank her tea and dried her tears, John continued where Sherlock left off. “And you know, just because you identify one way now doesn’t mean you can’t realize later that you were wrong. Your father would have told anyone that asked that he was completely asexual up until we met. Some things are just a bit confusing, and sometimes because of society’s perceptions, we misinterpret our own signals.”

Astrid just nodded. She didn’t really care if she was misinterpreting anything, because what really mattered was that no matter what she identified as, her parents’ response would always be, “alright. How about a cuppa?”


	14. The Scarf on the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I read something with some really angsty angst and I just about exploded so this is my fluffy, fuzzy, adorable and slightly awkward fix-it for me. If you enjoy it too, so much the better.

As a couple living alone, more or less, you get used to having a certain amount of privacy for, ahem, romantic activities.

Put more bluntly: a couple without kids isn’t worried about where they screw.

John and Sherlock had, until quite recently, been a childless couple. The adjustment period was taking awhile.

That is why one afternoon found John with his hands on Sherlock’s hips, nestling up against him from behind and pulling him away from his less-than-vital experiment on the kitchen table, all the while whispering naughty things in his ear. He steered him over to the couch, kissing the back of his neck and rubbing up and down his arms. Turning him around, he nudged Sherlock down onto the sofa and indicated that he was to lie down. As he did so, John climbed onto the sofa and over Sherlock, straddling his thighs. John bent to kiss him, and ended up initiating quite a passionate snogging session, for lack of a better term. Being healthy men engaging in such activities, their bodies responded with certain expected physiological reactions…

Just in time for Astrid to bbburst through the door and launch into what seemed to be a very promising story about showing up her English composition teacher.

Of course, when one’s newfound teenage daughter walks in on you getting handsy with anyone, even if it is your long-term partner, it’s awkward. Especially when the both of you are at this point less-than-fully clothed, in possession of _very_ mussed hair, breathing heavily, red-faced (and not just from embarrassment, either), and feeling each other up. That’s why John felt the instinctive urge to jump off Sherlock and stand to one side of the couch, awkwardly, much like he had the time his mum caught him trying to get Julia Ward’s knickers off. Unfortunately for John, both then and now, he’d had a rather obvious indicator of arousal. Luckily, or, depending on your point of view, unluckily, this time so did Sherlock, and it was a hard (no pun intended) decision as to which one was more obvious.

Shielding her eyes and blushing furiously, Astrid began to stutter, “Never mind… I’ll be, um, anywhere but here. Ok bye,” she shouted behind her as she ran upstairs to her own room. Neither John nor Sherlock could get a word in edgewise.

A few seconds later a call came down: “Just… inform me when you’re decent, would you??”

That was the night they decided on an indicator for “Do Not Enter, Copulation In Progress.”


	15. Everything's Under Control

“She. Is. Infuriating!” Sherlock stormed down the stairs from what was now Astrid’s room.

“Mmmm, she gets it from you,” John murmured from the couch.

“Obviously she doesn’t, John, she was raised by someone else; personality traits are not genetic.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. What’s got the two of you in a snit this time?”

Sherlock huffed as he flopped down on the sofa, in his usual sulking posture. One floor up, John fancied he could hear Astrid doing the exact same thing (with a bed rather than sofa). “I simply informed her that she cannot destroy my experiments willy-nilly because they’re too messy for her tastes.”

“What did she do, then?”

In a tone that left the _Would you believe?_ almost audible, Sherlock answered, “She threw out a vital experiment because, and I quote, ‘it was in the way of the worktop that I needed to use for supper and it looked like a bunch of dirty saucers, how was I to know it was important?’ Imagine, John, _dirty saucers._ As though she isn’t intelligent enough to tell the difference between a used saucer and several different types of fermentation!”

Ignoring the backhanded compliment to Astrid (but storing it away for a future moment of “I told you so”) John offered, “Well, she obviously didn’t mean to, though I agree she probably could have talked to you about it a bit better. But Sherlock, you have to be the adult here. She’s your daughter, not your equal, as much as she can seem like she is sometimes. She’s brilliant, yes, but she’s only a teenager. You have to be the bigger person and the disciplinarian, or she’ll never respect you.”

The sitting room was quiet for a few moments as Sherlock absorbed John’s advice.

“Then…what do I do?”

“Go talk to her about why it upset you so much, and work out a system so that nothing important gets thrown away again while still allowing her space to cook. I like that she cooks. It means I don’t always have to do all the work to feed you up. She’s a good kid, at heart. If you’ll just explain calmly and rationally, she’ll probably even apologize.”

“Ok,” Sherlock said, “Ok. Yes. I’ll go do that then.”

As Sherlock ascended the steps much more serenely than he’d descended just minutes earlier, John turned the page in his paper and settled back comfortably into his chair, safe in the knowledge that another crisis had been averted.


	16. Father's Day

Father’s Day was not a holiday Astrid had ever celebrated before. Sure, she knew it existed, and yes, she understood the principle of it, but with whom was she going to celebrate it? The father she’d never met? “Yeah, by the by, thanks for donating your sperm so I could exist and then fleeing and remaining anonymous for my entire life.” Not the best content for a card, and bloody hard to find. So she and her mother always anti-celebrated by spending the whole weekend in, watching a multi-day movie marathon of films with little to no appearances by fathers, eating popcorn and ice cream and pizza and drinking gallons of soda, tea, and coffee in various forms. They would stay in their jim jams and not bother fixing their hair or putting on makeup, turn off cell phones and computers, not answer the landline but for an emergency, and spend the weekend utterly ignoring the rest of the world.

 

So it’s understandable that when her first Father’s Day with an actual father figure rolls around, and there’s two of them to do something for, she’s a little overwhelmed. John and Sherlock don’t expect anything; John knows it’s hard to cope with such a sudden and complete change, and Sherlock doesn’t actually remember that Father’s Day exists.

But that Sunday morning, John wakes up to a cup of tea on his bedside table and an invitation for a “just us” dinner out that night. He smiles a little, thinking of the difference between this shy, honest, withdrawn girl who couldn’t even give him her gifts in person and the girl she had been when they first met, full of false bravado and mourning her mother.

Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn’t give the date a passing thought until he sits down at his side of the table in the sitting room and sees an envelope with his name written on it. Upon opening, he finds a horrifically generic Father’s Day card with a disgusting poem using a simplistic rhyme scheme. Inside, towards the bottom, though, it has possibly the most priceless words he’s ever seen written: _You know you’re quite good at being a detective, but I just thought you should know you’re not rubbish at being a father either, so you’ve got the position as long as you want it._


End file.
